When he finally stands I notice that he’s hunched in the shoulders, his tall frame bent inward from decades of huddling over living bodies. An elastic bandage circles his wrist, its tendons long ago frayed by the vibrating gun. Like slender roots, strands of gray invade his long beard. Only his eyes, clear and smiling, betray his cleverness.
The walls of the tiny shop are covered with his artwork: powerful Samurai warriors holding aloft drawn swords, magnificent lotuses, birds-of-paradise on the wing. An air conditioner gurgles above the front door. The scents of stale coffee, wet ink and fresh blood hang in the air.
He returns smelling of tobacco. As he contemplates my arm, the music of an unknown concerto drifts from the radio, and for the first time I understand that it’s not a tattoo he’s etched into my skin. It’s part of me I didn’t know was there.
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